The Case of the Severed Tightrope
by Sissa Goose
Summary: Bess Holmes is the new wife of Detective Sherlock Holmes and when the manager of a circus informs the inspector of murderous threats made on his star acrobat, she is swept into the life she has married into. But is it the life she wants?


**A/N:** Alright, some Sherlock Holmes love for all of you out there. If these first few chapter's go well, you can just bet there will be more to come.

A little bit of clarification for you lot who care: Sherlock Holmes never married, but I thought, what the heck. Holmes and Watson had separated for several years, during Watson's marriage, and this is when it takes place. (Around 1899)

Lord George IS a real man and most of what I have written is actual fact. I try to keep it as historically accurate as possible, but it IS a mystery, so some of it will be a bit farfetched.

I hope you like it. Comment please!

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It was impossible to read in this weather.

The soft sputtering of the rain falling against the brick outside was rudely drowning out the words lined ever so daintily on the page in front of me, smudging them, making my eyes go crossed. I lowered my volume and glimpsed across the room with whom I was sharing.

As usual, he was unfazed by the clamor outside and continued with his own reading.

I was unable to make out his face, hidden behind the crumpled pages of _The Lancet_, a paper which had usually never had the pleasure of such a reader, who had often criticized the weekly as 'complete and utter medical babble.'

I didn't query him on this sudden change of heart, for I knew a dear friend of his, a colleague had an article in this particular edition, on which he himself was mentioned, praised on his works in the fields of criminology.

He let out a snort as he read and crossed his feet over the stool in front of him.

"Any good?" I asked, setting my book down upon my lap. It was hopeless now to try to read.

He didn't answer but merely hummed in approval. I nodded, understanding.

I expected such an answer out of him.

After a year of marriage I had already come to accept my husband's 'eccentricities', one of the more considerable being that he was nearly impossible to talk to during bouts of heavy contemplation or study.

I glanced over at the fireplace, the log burning heartily, crackling with flames which cast unsettling shadows across the ceiling.

I stretched my arms over my head and then looked back at my husband, who was in the same exact position as he had been a few moments ago, the same position he had been in most of the night.

"May I pour you a cup of tea, dear?"

A small shuffle of the paper and a cough.

"Dear?"

I was answered with a bleak silence, save the ever-pouring rain outside.

I rose from my armchair and marched over to the chair in which he was fixed. I eyed the table next to him, cluttered with three cups of tea, all cold and untouched.

I bent down close to his ear and whispered;

"Would Mister Sherlock Holmes like a cup of tea from his dear, old wife?"

I stood up straight at that, awaiting his reaction.

It took him a few moments for the words to set in, but soon enough, he realized what had been said and lowered the medical journals.

"Hmm? Oh, yes. Thank you, darling."

I grinned and tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. At this, he grabbed for my hand and looked longingly back up to me.

Ah, that face. The one that I had married him for.

Nevermind the logic, the adventure, the rationale, aptitude and deduction. I had made him mine for moments like these.

Our sentimental moment was cut short, however, with three sharp knocks upon our front door.

I glanced at the clock above the mantle.

_10:23. _

"It's a bit late for a call, Sherlock."

He only nodded in return and inched towards the door of the sitting room, in order to get a better view of our unexpected guest as he was taken in by Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock stood and listened intently, already picking up invaluable information on our caller, no doubt.

It was only a moment before Mrs. Hudson knocked softly at the door in which we both were crowded around, a tray in her hand, the gentleman's calling card placed ever-so hastily on top.

Her eyes wide, she bade a slight curtsey and pushed the tray towards Sherlock.

"A gentleman to see you, sir. A matter of life or death."

I searched his eyes for any sign of curiosity, but they were heavy-lidded with unconcern, as if he had received the same plea for help several times a month.

He simply nodded, glanced at the card and set it back down upon the tray.

"Please show him in Mrs. Hudson, and if you would be so kind, please brew us a fresh pot of tea."

She curtsied again and exited the room.

I stood fixed on Sherlock, who had begun to walk back to his armchair, swinging his arms as he did.

"And who, may I ask is our mystery guest?" I questioned, a hint of anger flowing through my words.

"Our gentleman caller is a Lord George Sanger, an impresario of sorts, currently managing a local circus here in London."

I stood, wide-eyed as Mrs. Hudson had been, never tiring at his unfathomable skill.

He had lit his pipe casually just as our guest entered the sitting room.

He was a very athletic man, and extremely tan, as if he had spent his whole life out in the open. His hair was a shock of onyx, as well as his mustache, which voyaged well past his chin.

"Mr. Holmes," he muttered, ringing his gloved hands together nervously.

Sherlock didn't even glimpse at the man, but merely stood there, transfixed by the fire, smoking his pipe casually.

"By all means, Lord Sanger, come and sit down by the fire. It is a long journey to here from Dartford, especially in this weather."

He gestured to the sofa nonchalantly while Lord Sanger stood there transfixed.

"How were you aware I have come from Dartford, sir?"

At this, I tried to stifle a smile. I knew Sherlock was trying to hide one underneath his pipe as well, for we both knew what was going to come next.

He turned to face both Lord Sanger and I, one hand behind his back, the other latched to his pipe.

"You have come from Dartford because it is there you operate and manage Astley's Royal Amphitheatre. You have just come from there, I notice, from the dried manure on your left boot, which couldn't have been made on your journey here, as it would have been moistened, due to the rain."

I looked at our guest, who stood there, his mouth agape. Sherlock continued:

"But you are not from London, sir. From your accent, I'd say you were from the West Country, Newbury perhaps."

"Spot on, my good man!" Lord George applauded, rushing over to Sherlock's side and shaking his hand rigorously. "A true detective if I've ever seen one."

Sherlock just continued smoking on his pipe, his arm being pumped like a siphon.

Sherlock released his arm from it's grip and gestured to me.

"My wife, Mrs. Bess Holmes."

I nodded to Lord George politely and walked over to my husband, who had taken a seat at his armchair.

Lord George had planted himself on the sofa and removed his gloves carefully, placing them on the arm of the couch.

"I have no idea how you deduced he was in the circus profession, Sherlock." I whispered to him, resting my hand on his shoulder.

"It was simple really. If you look carefully at his collar, just there, you notice a patch of skin which has been severely burned at some point in the distant past, isn't that right Lord George?"

He nodded in conformation.

"Well, I took his place of birth and calculated the span of years in which he would have been a young boy, when he would have most likely got that nasty burn and instantly recalled reading a chronicle on a large fire which had broken out in the town of Newbury in a circus, Gifford's Circus to be exact. And judging by the sturdy musculature of our friend here, I would say he is still in the business of acrobatics and equestrian riding, both of which are on exhibition at a circus."

Lord George nodded once more and smiled.

"Your husband's work is praised around the world, and for good reason, I come to find out. I only hope you can help me with the particular situation currently endangering one of the circus' star performers."

"Endangering, good sir?"

"Indeed." he replied, ringing his hands once again. For one who dealt their whole lives living in danger by walking tightropes and spinning 'round on horse's backs, he was indeed a dodgy fellow.

"You see, our lead acrobat and star of the show has been targeted for murder."


End file.
